


Vilomita

by avani



Series: The Vilomita 'Verse [1]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: Amarendra Baahubali is the child sent down the river to safety.





	Vilomita

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenofmahishmati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofmahishmati/gifts), [weaslayyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaslayyy/gifts).



> For the lovely sharme/queenofmahishmati and the brilliant Maya/parlegee/weaslayyy, without whom this fic would not exist. I'm not certain this lives up to the version in your brilliant imaginations, but I remain grateful for your idea and encouragement and support.

Nandi is fifteen when he realizes he doesn’t resemble either of his parents. For years now he has towered over his mother, short of stature and temper alike, but now his frame dwarfs his gentle, quiet father as well. His eyes are too keen, his shoulders too broad, and his hands too hungry for something more than a simple staff or club. Then he overhears the village midwife console a young woman that barrenness is not the worst of all fates, or even necessarily a sign of a childless future: why, look at Sanga and the son the river brought her, when all hope was lost!—and the pieces fall into place. 

He lingers in the forest that evening, hiding up in the trees to consider this fully. His parents are his parents: they have loved him and cherished him and raised him as their own, and that will never change. He can ever forgive them the lie, knowing without needing to be told that they meant it to spare his feelings. He can’t deny, though, that what does change is the way his heart races at the thought of finding others whose blood warms at the thought of adventure, who might share enough of his strength to pose a challenge in a fight, who want more than a life lived in the same small village. He looks back up at the birds circling the top of the waterfall, that prize forbidden him by a childhood promise to his mother, who had been convinced that he would break his neck scaling it by his first few disastrous attempts. 

The son the river had brought her, the midwife had said. What if— 

His word binds him still. He forces himself to look away. His mother will be expecting him for dinner; to disappear now would destroy her. He swings down from the branch he’s been sitting down, and walks away. 

* 

Ten years pass before he thinks of this again. He’s returning back from Nattu’s house, having repaired the roof for what must be the fifth time. With fresh timber, he thinks, he could change the angle of the roof, to ensure that the rainwater doesn’t collect and weigh it down. A full morning’s work, but easier than climbing up and thatching the cottage again and again. He is so preoccupied he almost misses the compliments and admiring stares of his fellow villagers; almost, but not quite. If he didn’t know better, he might think they finally see him as more than Sanga’s son, he of the mad ideas they heed only because of her say-so. 

“Well, of course they do,” says Mother when he tells her this. “You will be their chieftain someday. Oh, don’t look like that, Nandi, your father and I have no intention of leaving you so soon. But someday, when you’re settled down, with a wife and a family—“ 

It is almost impossible to keep his face impassive, to keep from betraying his discontent not at the thought of leadership, but of accepting a life bound to the village without ever having seen anything else. Without, he thinks, ever having discovered who he is or where he had come from. The weight of it sends him stumbling from the house on the flimsiest of excuses; but, once in the forest, he stares helplessly at the waterfall instead of choosing a tree to fell. His past is up there, he is certain, even if his future must be down below. 

But he remembers from childhood how treacherous the leap necessary to scale the mountain further had been; even now, approaching the other bank, he can calculate that only a stroke of luck rather than skill could guarantee his success. Worth it, perhaps, but— 

He stops. A boulder stands against the other rocks on the riverside. It has been there as long as he can remember, but for the first time, he realizes how out-of-place it appears when compared to its fellows. He bends to examine the ground. Grass grows thickly throughout, but when he places his hand on it, he can feel indentations on the soil directly before the boulder, as though it had been moved in the past. As though it had been meant to hide something. 

Mother told him once that monsters lived above the waterfall; but he is a grown man now, not one to fear childhood stories. He puts his shoulder to the boulder and pushes. 

The gaping maw of a tunnel lies open before him. 

Nandi catches his breath. 

* 

“I lost my ax-blade in the forest today,” he announces to his parents at dinner, neglecting to add that this was because he detached it himself and flung it away, “and I haven’t any others. I’ll need another one, you know.” 

His mother huffs and mutters that he ought to be more careful; what if he had hurt himself instead of only losing his blade? Father tilts his head curiously and asks what he means to do about it. 

“There’s a market a few days’ walk from here,” Nandi says. “I heard the traders speak of it the last time they passed through. I could be there and back again before the rains begin.” 

Mother frowns and opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Father interrupts: “Let the boy go, Sanga. Look at him. A week’s travel won’t do him any damage.” 

Mother hardly seems convinced, but she cannot argue with Father’s calm good sense, combined with Nandi’s coaxing. In the morning, she packs him what seems a week’s worth of clothing and a month’s worth of food, and bids him farewell. As much as Nandi hates to see his mother weep, the one advantage he can find is that the tears obscure her eagle eye for detecting falsehood. If Father notices that Nandi slips flints and his handaxe into his pack as well, he says nothing. 

Nandi stands before the tunnel once more a mere hour later, still unable to believe his good fortune. He lights a torch and steps inside; no demons come forward to take him into their grasp as he enters. In fact the tunnel appears devoid of any life whatsoever other than him. Instead it only twists back and forth, with only the slight incline of the path hinting as to where he might emerge. 

He is never certain how long he walks: the better part of a day is his best estimate, but in the darkness, it seems far longer. He has his mother’s food, at least, and stops for a few minutes' rest when he must. At least he approaches what seems to be the exit, but this, too, is blocked by a boulder, and one that will be more difficult from his position inside the tunnel. He lifts his torch to look for any natural handholds on the boulder, but instead finds a symbol worked into the rock: a throne upon a dais and flanked by horses, surrounded by the rising—or is it setting?—sun. 

He runs his fingers over the marking carefully, only to discover a latch worked into the horse on the right. 

The boulder moves aside. 

It’s strange; when he had imagined this moment, he had always thought he would be standing, triumphant, at the top of the waterfall. Instead he finds himself in the middle of a nondescript plain, populated by nothing more than a stray straggly tree or two. 

What had he expected? That he would emerge from the tunnel, and the family that had sent him down the river would be waiting patiently to offer an explanation as to why they had given him away? Nonsense. In the distance he can see a faint smudge that might be a village. He might find answers there, or if not, at the very least the ax-blade he’ll have to show for his efforts when he returns home. 

* 

The village, when he reaches it, is deserted. At least that is what he would assume if he didn’t see the faint silhouettes of men and women crouching inside their houses, careful to hold their breath so as to keep from betraying their presence. Only a handful of people remain: two beggars wrapped only in tattered blankets to protect from the monsoon that is soon to come, and a woman, standing with her back to him as she draws water at the well. It hardly seems the best time to introduce himself as a stranger. Nandi stands in the shadow of a goatpen at the edge of the village and waits to better understand what has happened here. 

He doesn’t have to wait long to discover the source of their terror, however; that is clear enough when a troop of horsemen come riding in, unsheathed swords in their hands and sneers on their faces. 

The flag they carry with them bears the same sigil he noticed at the end of the tunnel. Nandi frowns. 

The soldiers dismount and approach the woman. “You there, girl!” says the man who’s evidently their leader. “Tell your elders to hurry up and bring us our tribute. The King expects us by sunset.” 

“The rains haven’t even come yet, much less the harvest,” the woman points out. Her voice is low and sweet; Nandi moves forward without meaning to. “There is no tribute for the village to offer. Surely your merciful King will understand.” 

The captain continues to advance. “Well, then, pretty one,” he drawls, “I’m sure we can come to some compromise—“ 

Before his hand settles on her shoulder, the woman throws off her shawl; the quickness of her action and the fabric fluttering towards his face sends him stumbling back in surprise. Before he can regain his balance, the woman has drawn the sword buckled at his waist and buried it in his heart. 

The soldiers gape, startled, and attack as one. Nandi takes another step forward, intending to help, but then the woman turns, determination rather than dismay sketched on her lovely features, and pulls another sword—her own, apparently—from the bucket in the well where she must have hidden it. All of a sudden, breathing becomes a challenge, much less joining the fight as he meant to do. 

He has never seen anyone so beautiful before, or so brave. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Nandi can see the beggars likewise shed their rags to reveal weapons and join the skirmish, but she hardly requires their assistance. She ducks and dodges, parries and kicks, and one by one the soldiers fall. 

Only one staggers away, unnoticed by either the woman or her two disguised lieutenants. Nandi watches him limp to his horse impassively; a man who’s chosen cowardice by running from battle has also chosen his own punishment. But instead of fleeing and preserving what little honor remains to him, the soldier reaches for his bow and takes aim at the woman, who fights on, unaware. 

Nandi tackles the other man, hand-axe in hand. It’s the first time he has had to take a life; it’s easier than he would have expected. 

When he looks up again, the fight has ended. The villagers emerge, heads bowed; they eye their saviors with as much suspicion as they did the soldiers. Whoever these warriors might be, they certainly don't hail from this village. 

“It’s all right,” the woman says, more gently than her fierceness in battle would suggest. “They won’t harm you any longer.” 

"And if they come back?" demands a man, face gaunt and hair grizzled. Worry, Nandi suspects, not spite, prompts his question. "What then?" 

"Then you stand and fight to defend what's yours," says Nandi, coming forward at last. 

The woman and her comrades look up as one. Her sword is unsheathed once more. "Who are you?" 

He raises his hands to show he poses no threat. "No one of consequence. I--" 

"Pray don't pretend you've been here all the while," she interrupts, her voice sharp as her blade. "You arrived just before the soldiers did. Why?" 

The villagers murmur darkly amongst themselves, but the only judgment that matters is hers. He watches her calmly. "And that was the first time I had seen them." 

Her gaze is no less piercing, but her grip on her weapon relaxes. He takes that as a favorable sign. 

"I traveled here from my village, at the foot of a waterfall where the river ends." She raises her eyebrows, and he adds: "There is a tunnel that travels through the mountain to bring one to this place." 

Her expression betrays nothing. "Show me," is all she says. 

* 

When they approach the spot on the plains where the boulder still rests, displaced from its duty of sealing the exit to the tunnel, her only reaction is a quick intake of breath. It is nonetheless satisfying, all the more so because her dark eyes focus on him: he basks in her attention. 

“Your village--do many live there?” 

He is smitten, not senseless. “About eighty or so--warriors, that is. Enough to ensure our defense.” 

If she had any plans of conquest, even such a blatant lie does nothing to dissuade her. Instead she turns to him. “And those warriors you speak of--your people--if the choice was put before you, between Kuntala and Mahishmati, with whom would they fight?” 

Her eyes brim with hope terrible in its intensity, hope that quickly fades as she sees the clear incomprehension on his face. 

“Close it up,” she commands her lieutenants, voice firm. 

“But Devasena--” And: _Devasena._ That is her name, and fitting in every way; an entire army worthy of the gods contained in the body of one extraordinary woman. “This could mean allies, supplies--” 

“At the end of a tunnel, continuing on indefinitely, on nothing more than the word of a stranger,” replies the woman--Devasena. “Do you think it worth the risk,Kumar?” 

Evidently Kumar does not. It takes all the strength that he posses, along with that of his fellow lieutenant, to move the boulder back into place, and Nandi, watching, feels his heart sink. He has always known he was stronger than anyone back home, but before now he had always assumed that everyone who lived above the river was just as powerful. The truth is clear to him, though, that he is an aberration even among them; the shame of it keeps him from offering to help the two men, though they sweat and strain. 

“What to do with him, then?” asks the other when they finish, eyeing Nandi with clear misgiving. 

Devasena considers. “We’ll take him back with us, Madhav,” she decides finally. “Let the decision rest in my brother’s hands.” 

That resolved, Nandi’s hands are bound and his eyes covered while they return to wherever this warlike trio considers home. It would be rather more difficult, he thinks, if the rope around his wrists wasn’t so frayed as to easily come apart if Nandi sets his mind to it; and if lack of any other material didn’t force them to use Devasena’s fine shawl—as beautiful as it is translucent— as a blindfold. He gathers, though, that this is meant to ensure both their protection and their privacy, and therefore he doesn’t quite have the heart to reveal exactly how inadequate the measures they have taken are. 

To do so requires that he stumble around, the better to show himself as sightless as they intend him to be; if the closest body to stumble into happens to be Devasena, he hardly thinks he can be blamed for it. She says nothing, only favors him with a sharp look before taking his arm to guide him along. 

This is fortune above anything Nandi could have expected; delighted, he looks down at her, guiltily grateful that his blindfold, useless as it really is, conceals the direction of his gaze. With Devasena at his side, the walk to their destination appears to go by in the space between two heartbeats. He is disappointed when his three companions come to a stop, and Devasena reaches up to untie the gauzy shawl about his eyes. 

Now free to examine his surroundings, Nandi finds himself facing only the mouth of a cave nestled into the side of the mountain, unprepossessing in every way. As they enter, he thinks there’s not much to choose from between this new cave and the tunnel, but as they travel on, torches appear every so often, bracketed into the dank walls to provide light, and the ground on which he walks grows soft, covered by a carpet of rushes. 

Eventually they emerge into sunlight once more, only to find themselves surrounded by more people than Nandi has ever seen in his life. Some of them linger near the entrances to other caves that radiate around them; others carry baskets of laundry or food here and there; but most mill around a man, not half a decade older than Nandi, who is seated at the other end of the makeshift courtyard, and it is here where he is led. 

At first glance, the object of their attention appears utterly unremarkable, and on second and third glance as well; but Devasena brightens to see him, as he does her, and that counts for a great deal in Nandi’s opinion. 

But when the man finally speaks, it is only to pronounce, “Not again, Devasena” in tones of great disapproval. 

“Another troop defeated,” she replies. “And any injury to the forces of Mahishmati is a victory nonetheless. Is that not our goal?” 

“At the right time. In the right place.” 

Devasena straightens, equally indignant and magnificent. “The right time is whenever injustice occurs; the right place is wherever innocent people suffer! Or do you intend me to close my ears to their cries only because they were born of Mahishmati and not Kuntala?” 

“I intend that my only sister not put herself in danger over a battle that is not her own.” While Devasena seems inclined to argue further, abruptly her brother asks: “And who is this?” 

Nandi, not expecting to find himself so suddenly the topic of discussion, stumbles without meaning to. 

Devasena frowns but says nothing; it is left to her lieutenant Madhav to explain, “A stranger who the Crown Princess discovered who entered along with the soldiers who came to ravage the village but hid away during their assault. He claims to come from--” 

“I wasn't certain of his origins, or his purpose, or what to do with him,” Devasena interrupts. “So I brought him here.” 

Her brother’s gaze rakes over Nandi, unfriendly and untrusting. “I see. What are your origins, then, stranger? Your purpose?” 

Sudden caution prompts him to shrug with a casualness he does not feel; he does not need to remember Devasena and her comrades’ response to be wary of betraying his village once more.“I hail from nowhere in particular,” he lies, and hopes it is convincing. “I’m only a wanderer, off to see what sights the world can offer me.” 

“And that such wanderings happened to bring you to the same village where my sister was to be found, am I to consider that coincidence?” 

“Perhaps it's fate,” Nandi says hopefully, and adds, with far more sincerity: “I would gladly die rather than bring danger to Devasena, knowingly or unknowingly.” 

He feels her eyes on him, plainly startled, but he dares not meet them for fear of blushing. Before him, her brother’s face softens slightly for an instant before turning resolute once again. 

“Noble as your intentions may be,” he says, “I pray you’ll understand and forgive my need for caution regardless. All else aside, I can hardly allow a man who’s entered our hideout to take our secrets to the enemy; to do so would risk the safety of every life here, and such a burden weighs too heavily on me.” 

He gestures, and behind him Nandi hears the scrape of two swords being drawn. He’s calculating how best to immobilize them with minimal damage once he breaks free of his bonds--their acquaintance might consist only of a single journey together, but he hates to think of harm coming to them at his hands--when another sword leaves its scabbard and suddenly, surprisingly, Devasena stands before him protectively. 

“I vouch for him,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but in the sudden silence, it echoes. 

“Devasena!” Her brother stares at her, clearly aghast. 

“I vouch for him,” she repeats. “Do you not trust my judgment, after all these years? Have you ever known me to be mistaken? This man means us no harm, I'm certain of it--if I'm wrong, I take full responsibility for it myself.” 

“If you are wrong,” her brother corrects her grimly, “every man and woman here will pay for it with their lives.” 

“He can stay here,” Devasena offers. “He won't leave, if that's what concerns you. But if you would claim a man’s life out of nothing but fear--” She shakes her head in disgust. “Such an act is beneath you. I won't have it.” 

“And what are we to do with him otherwise?” demands a voice behind them: Kumar. “Another mouth to feed, and nothing to show for it.” 

Devasena rakes an assessing glance up and down Nandi’s body. “He’s well-formed enough,” she pronounces. “If nothing else, he can make another guard someday.” She turns back to face her brother expectantly. 

“Very well,” he decides at last. “Since he owes his life to you, Devasena, he can repay you through service to our cause. But he is not to leave the inner halls unescorted; nor is he to be given access to weapons unsupervised. At the slightest suspicion, I trust he--and you--understand that his life will be forfeit?” 

Nandi nods. Devasena frowns but remains silent. 

“Then let it be so,” her brother decrees and settles back in his chair, appearing not a little relieved. Nandi wonders how often it has been so: the brother arguing for a course he feels needed but extreme, secretly relying on his sister and her sense of righteousness to convince him otherwise. But he has little time to speculate; Devasena is walking away and he follows. 

She seems to expect it, though, leading him down another tunnelway lined with rushes. “Here’s where you’ll sleep. The only place left is by the kitchens, I'm afraid, but you might think that an advantage for all--” 

“Your brother was not mistaken,” says Nandi, and Devasena stiffens. “I do owe you my life, and I thank you for it, but--why?” 

“I might ask you the same thing,” she replies and only raises her eyebrows in response Nandi’s best impression of confusion. “The army of Mahishmati rides in troops of twelve soldiers. I felled six, Madhav three, Kumar Varma two.” 

“I can't understand how--” 

“There were twelve bodies when we left the village. I counted.” She pauses. “And one by the horses, bow still in hand.” 

The interest with which she studies him is nothing short of intoxicating, but honor demands he remind her: “If I had been with them, and ruthless in seeking your trust, the sacrifice of one of my own--” 

“Would be impossible for one who speaks of it with such disgust as you do now. Much less one who hides away such a thing even when it could save his life,” Devasena points out. “Besides, even were you a spy, as my brother fears, you must be quite a poor one to spend the entire journey to the hideout of the feared Kuntalan rebels watching me instead of your surroundings.” 

So the inadequacy of his bindings hadn't been an accident after all. Nandi stares at her, torn between embarrassment and admiration. 

“If I've thrown in my lot with them,” he says, “I should like to know why the Kuntalan rebels are so feared.” 

Devasena smiles, a flash of white teeth born of ferocity rather than mirth. “Because,” she says, “they are the only ones who dare oppose the tyranny of the King of Mahishmati. Twenty years ago, he occupied Kuntala and demanded absolute surrender. We refused, of course, and in return the King salted our fields and cut down our trees, exiling us from our rightful home.” 

Nandi frowns. “And there are no other countries to offer you shelter? No other kings or queens to speak against this one?” 

“Any who have tried have shared Kuntala’s fate,” Devasena explains. “It's better if the rest remain away; we've no need to endanger anyone else.” 

“Which is why,” he supplies, “you went out of your way to keep anyone from knowing about my people.” 

She doesn't pretend ignorance. “They are innocent of our war,” she says, “and I would spare them the King’s wrath. Even with its eighty or so warriors. As for you--my brother’s caution never lasts long. He’ll find something new to concern him in a week’s time, and he will agree when I tell him to let you go.” 

“If I go,” Nandi replies. “If you can protect my people, who you don't know at all, why can't I protect yours, who have suffered far more?” 

Devasena gapes, for once lost for words. Its satisfying enough that it seems exactly the right note on which to end the conversation, and Nandi ducks his head and backs into the room she’s indicated will be his own. 

“Wait,” she says, and he stops short. “What did you say your name was?” 

He hadn't. “Nandi,” he admits, heart beating a little faster at the thought of hearing it from her lips. 

“Hardly fitting,” she declares. The corners of her mouth turn up; the overall effect is of decided smugness. “A man like you deserves to be named for more than a mount.” 

She’s gone before he can think of anything else to say. 

* 

Kuntalans, Nandi comes to find out, have not the slightest idea of how to treat their prisoners. 

After that first day, everyone, Jayasena included, seems entirely to have forgotten that he came to them under suspicion. Instead he shares in their food and work and jokes as though he has always lived in their midst; Kumar Varma, apparently not only Devasena's brother-in-arms but also a brother-in-law, enthusiastically sets him to work seeing to the weaponry, Jayasena’s earlier prohibition forgotten. 

What's more, they all have a fondness for frank speech without feeling any need for discretion, which is why when Devasena enters the armory, not too many days later, Nandi regards her almost accusingly. 

“You're a princess,” he says without preamble, and Devasena blinks in surprise before her face smoothens into a faint smile. 

“I suppose you could say that,” she admits, “but Kuntala fell and we fled when I was barely three years of age. I have never known any other life than this one. Really, I'm no more royal than you are.” 

Nandi regards her gravely. “I confess we don't know much of kings and queens downriver,” he says, “but it seems to me that what makes one royal is a willingness to protect others before oneself, to take up responsibilities rather than privilege. That should count for more than birth or circumstance.” 

“And I could say the same for you,” counters Devasena. “My point still stands.” 

She may make such a claim, but it's clear that the Kuntalans consider Jayasena’s sister and second-in-command with the highest respect. She can barely take two steps without being greeted by a request for advice, a plea for help, or even rapturous thanks. She steals away to practice her archery alone: the camp buzzes with gossip about her determination to master the art of shooting multiple arrows at once. Occasionally her sister-in-law stops her with an admonition to consider her cooking or her clothing, only to be met with the laughing rejoinder, “Do you mean for me to prepare myself for battle, or to be a bride?” 

With all these demands on her attention, Nandi finds himself flattered that every day, somehow she sits with him in the armory. At first he wonders if she doesn't intend to guard against the remote possibility he might betray them, but no, she assures him, she prefers to care for her weapons for herself. He wouldn’t mind even if that were not the case; he enjoys her company. He thinks--he hopes--that she enjoys his. Her silences are as expressive as her speech; her conversations as impassioned as they are insightful. her moods as mercurial as the moon. Before he knows it, he can no longer remember a time when he did not know her, when she was not the blazing center of his world. 

More than a fortnight of this idyll passes before Nandi finds the rest of the camp in chaos and their leader and his sister utterly opposed to each other. Such disagreements are not uncommon, he gathers, but it is the first that he has ever seen; everyone is so certain of which side they favor that it’s some time before he can understand what is happening. 

“--The best chance we’ll have,” Jayasena is saying. “A festival will mean the King is less protected than his norm. This is the easiest way to put an end to him before any harm comes to anyone else.” 

“But an assassination?” counters Devasena. “A murder without honor?” 

“The King shows no honor to his foes; why should he be due any in return?” 

“Because he is not worth sacrificing our honor for!” snaps Devasena. “And if you mean to exploit lowered defenses, why not instead take that chance to free--” 

“We have spoken of this before,” says Jayasena in a tone that brooks no disagreement. “The answer remains ‘No.’” Devasena looks away, scowling but silent for the time being. Her brother continues, “Now who will go to Mahishmati to fulfill the mission? Madhav? Keshav? Adhrit?” 

The voice that breaks the uncomfortable silence is calm and assured. “I will,” it says, and Nandi suspects he is the only one present not surprised to hear Devasena speak. 

“Devasena--” Jayasena splutters. 

“Who else will you send? You’ve told me yourself that there’s no finer archer in our ranks, so who else do you think could achieve what you ask and return unscathed?” 

Try as Jayasena might, he cannot hold his own in an argument with his sister; Nandi doubts anyone can. In minutes, he’s agreeing to let her go, however reluctantly. He does insist, however, that she go accompanied by a handful of fellow warriors: not unreasonable at all. 

Devasena, though, refuses outright. Easier, she argues, to go alone; she stands less chance to being identified and stopped. “Adhrit’s been stopped by soldiers at least a thousand times,” she says. “Madhav almost as many. And even were they not recognized, the guards at the walls are no fools. A lone woman might escape their scrutiny; a troop of warriors? Never.” 

“Be that as it may,” retorts her brother, “pray don’t imagine I will hear of you travelling unprotec--” 

“I will go with Devasena,” Nandi volunteers. “As you say, I owe her my life. What better way to repay her?” 

Jayasena’s eyes fix on his, suddenly sharp and shrewd. Nandi remembers, uncomfortably, that this same man had been untrusting enough to call for his life not half a month earlier; but Nandi has seen him since, laughing with his wife, indulging his brother-in-law, teasing his sister, and knows he has nothing to fear from a man with a good heart. 

“Very well,” says Jayasena after what feels an eternity. “If Devasena agrees--” 

“It seems I have no choice,” she replies. “As long as you won’t interfere,” she warns Nandi. 

He will make no promises he cannot keep. “Not willingly,” he says. “Never that.” 

Devasena accepts. 

* 

When at last Nandi and Devasena set out, her family rises early to see them off. 

Jayasena grips his sister’s hand. “Come back,” he tells her urgently. “Victorious or not, that is of no matter to me. But come back.” 

Devasena tosses her head. “Save your concern for those in need of it,” she replies but, Nandi notices, squeezes his hand in farewell just as tightly. 

Kumar Varma clucks at the fact that Nandi chooses to take only his old hand-axe and a bow and quiver from the Kuntalan supply. “What do you mean, the swords don't feel right?” he demands, all offended dignity. “And I haven't even taught you to use a bow yet!” 

Nandi, who has experienced the dubious benefits of Kumar Varma’s lessons with a sword already, suppresses a smile. As little as he might know, he’s certain there must be more to swordplay than hacking at tree stumps. He can't imagine what archery might hold. “I’m certain I will muddle through somehow,” he offers, voice mild. 

“I don't like it,” announces Sumitra. “This poor young man, inexperienced in war, sent to Mahishmati of all places! Won't you think better of it, Devasena?” 

“If I did, he’d only steal away and follow me anyway,” Devasena says, perceptive as always. “Don't worry so, _Anni._ I’ll protect him as I would my own eye.” 

Much later, when it's only the two of them on the road, she says: “You mustn't mind my sister.” 

“Only a fool would take offense at concern offered from a kind heart.” 

Devasena smiles but continues, “It’s only that she’s excited, you see. She’s never come so close to having a brother-in-law before, and she will never forgive me if I let you get killed before I had the chance to marry you.” 

She says this in so deceptively unconcerned a tone that at first the words wash over Nandi before he can truly comprehend them; a heartbeat or two later, though, realization sinks in, and he stares at Devasena. 

“Marry?” 

“If you mean to raise any objection,” says Devasena, head held high, “I warn you that it’s rather too late for that.” 

It's difficult to keep a grin from spreading across his face. “Not an objection,” he manages, “not precisely.” 

“And,” says Devasena, “until Kuntala is free and restored to its past glory, I cannot in good conscience let myself wed. If you are willing to understand that?” 

Nandi opens his mouth to assure her he would wait for her until the stars crumbled--but stops short when he hears the telltale tread of footsteps marching in unison. Devasena turns to him, confused only for an instant before the twist of her mouth tells him she hears it as well. 

She draws her bow, and he shakes his head slightly: little sense in inviting trouble, he thinks. He does not expect her to agree, so it's a pleasant surprise when, with an aggrieved look, she lowers her weapon. 

When the soldiers come into sight, Nandi raises his hand in the traveler’s salute. With any luck, they’ll see nothing remarkable and allow them to pass through. 

But their captain’s face turns white, then red: he hisses, “You!” and charges forward. 

So much for that hope, Nandi thinks, reaching for his hand-axe before thinking better of it and drawing his bow. Beside him, Devasena has already let her first arrow fly; he makes a note that he owes her an apology for doubting her judgment. 

Soldiers travel in troops of twelve, Nandi remembers. That means eleven arrows more, and enough time to draw and fire six between the two of them: enough time for the soldiers to advance on and overwhelm them, unless-- 

“Four fingers, and hold your wrist out,” he calls, stringing three arrows on his bow at once, and Devasena, with an incredulous look, follows. 

Three and three is six; six and six is twelve and safety. 

“I always knew such a thing was possible,” says Devasena with no little satisfaction; when he looks at her, her eyebrows are raised. 

“I grew up in a village, not in seclusion,” he says in answer to her unspoken question. “Traders came by, and traveling warriors too, sometimes. They liked to teach, the bow sometimes, the sword others. I learned what I could from them, and taught myself the rest.” 

That look of amazement lingers on her face for an instant longer before it's replaced by amusement. “I don't dare tell Kumar. He was so looking forward to teaching you how to use a spear next.” 

Nandi laughs, but his mirth fades when he notices that the leader of the troop, the one who had hailed them with such ferocity, is still alive. A cruel, lingering way to die, from a wound in the belly such as his; Nandi steps closer, to offer him mercy should he accept it. 

But the man’s gaze, as he approaches, is narrowed with hatred: Nandi turns around to ensure Devasena is safely away, but no, that intensity is meant only for him. 

“You,” says the captain once again. “You died twenty-five years back, my lord, from poison ordered from my master’s hand--though much good it did him.” He spits weakly. “Your ghost can take as much revenge as you want; I will not repent in this life or the next.” 

“He speaks as though he knows you,” says Devasena behind him. He can hear the frown in her voice. 

“He’s dying,” Nandi guesses. “Delirious.” He offers his hand-axe and at the man’s reluctant nod, does what must be done. Nandi is grateful he accepted; to leave him raving, wounded, and alone would weigh too heavily on his conscience. 

Devasena remains unconvinced, if her continued frown is any indication, and even Nandi cannot forget that the man’s eyes were bright with recognition, not dulled with madness any more than he can forget the words he spoke. 

They walk the rest of the way to Mahishmati in silence. 

* 

Mahishmati, when they finally reach it, is beyond all expectations: Nandi overhears ten different tongues, smells a hundred scents, sees a thousand faces even among the crowd milling to enter the city itself. It shines before him, all life and unrealized potential; he loves it at once. 

Devasena, though, peering at the walls, appears far less enthusiastic. 

“They can't be scaled,” she proclaims gloomily. “Not easily, at least, and not without the risk of coming across more soldiers on the wall--” 

“Or,” says Nandi, “we could simply walk in.” 

The most difficult part is convincing her to relinquish her bow. Even after she agrees that it’s hardly unobtrusive, even after she admits her plans do not require its use, Devasena still frowns when he scales a tree to hide their bows among its branches. 

“Even Arjuna was separated from his Gandiva in the Matsya kingdom,” she muses. 

“But soon reunited,” he reminds her. “You will be too.” 

His hand-axe is unremarkable enough to remain tucked into his belt, and Devasena redrapes her sari to conceal her sword in the folds of her skirts. So limited a disguise will have to do; he prays his skills in deception have improved. 

The guard at the drawbridge makes a point of addressing Nandi alone, though Devasena is the one to greet him. Nandi raises his eyebrows; Devasena exhales in annoyance. 

“Come to show the wife the city, have you?” inquires the guard, a young fellow with a round, pleasant face. “You couldn't have chosen a better day for it; the King celebrates the twenty-fifth anniversary of his rule.” 

The villager he is meant to be would react only with delight.“Does he? To think we had the fortune to choose this day of all others. Lakshmi herself must smile on us!” 

The guard nods fervently. “There’ll be food and festivities all day long -- this day, unlike every other, the King gives rather than takes. If I weren't meant to be working until moonrise, I'd join you myself.” 

They spend a few minutes in conversation about family and fortunes; the guard’s name is Uday, he is not married nor has any hopes to be, and is happier than he can say to escape his deathly dull household. For his part, Nandi invents an ailing grandfather who requires constant care out of whole cloth, the better to explain why he is so unfamiliar with the city. 

By the time he manages to extricate himself, Devasena looks up at him in laughing exasperation. “The longer you speak with them, the longer they will remember you,” she reminds him, and he must agree. 

“Forgive me,” he says, and she shakes her head. 

“Your wife, am I?” 

The thought brings a smile to his face anew. “I was told it was too late to raise objection to the idea,” he replies, voice meek. 

She sniffs and takes his arm to lead him away. “If we’re married, then, I should know your family as you know mine. Is there a grandfather whose hearing is as bad as you say?” 

He laughs. “No. Only my parents, the best in the world, who took an abandoned baby to their hearts and never made him realize it. They will love you as I do when they meet--” 

They've not taken three steps when they hear: “Stop!” 

Nandi forces himself to look as unconcerned as possible as they turn together; Devasena fumbles for the hilt of her sword. 

Uday approaches, forehead furrowed. “You're going in the wrong direction,” he tells Nandi when close enough to speak. “The King’s exhibition is to your right, down the ceremonial way. You won't want to miss it.” 

Nandi look to Devasena, who only shrugs almost imperceptibly; what choice do they have? “My thanks,” he says . “What would we have done without your kindness?” 

“Think nothing of it,” Uday replies, and persists in watching them closely to make sure they do not mistake their path once more. 

The King’s exhibition is not nearly so exciting as Nandi expects; instead of duels and contests open to all, the field is meant only to showcase the prowess of the royal family. 

“They’re limited by the general idiocy of the King’s sons,” Devasena explains, “Three of them, each more doltish than the last. If they allowed outsiders to compete, their inadequacy would become far more apparent than the King would like.” 

Nandi, studying the crowd’s less-than-impressed faces after the most recent display, has to agree. Nine of ten arrows had missed the mark, but instead of acknowledging the error, the bard appointed to announce the results only complimented the Prince Vivasvat for creatively changing the rules of the competition as he went along. However, the onlookers appear slightly more interested when the next champion enters the ring. 

“Which one is this?” Nandi asks, and Devasena frowns. 

“I'm not certain,” she admits, almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd when they see the enraged, enormous bull being led to the other side of the ring, kept in check only by the ropes that six straining men clutch. It all seems barbaric to Nandi, but Devasena’s eyes brighten with interest. “A trial by Lord Siva’s chosen! My brother tells me that’s how the worthy were selected, back in Kuntala.” 

A man on the royal pavilion --presumably the King himself raises his hand, and the bull is released. 

In a sightless rage, it storms towards the nearest living thing, the young man who stares it down without the slightest hint of fear. Nandi can understand why everyone around him takes so much delight in the promise of what can only be destruction--at least until the young man seizes the bull by its horns, despite its size, and wrestles it to the ground. 

For the first time, Nandi looks on a human being as powerful as he is himself. 

After so long waiting and wondering, it’s--it’s not quite what he had expected. He might have been frightened to find himself no longer without equal, but the other man’s strength hardly means his own is lessened. He might have expected kinship or understanding, but that hope is diminished by the expression in the other’s eyes. Something Nandi mistrusts lurks there, something savage and inhuman. That leaves only curiosity, to see if what had happened gone wrong to make Nandi so abnormally strong had happened in this man, as well. 

He turns and begins to walks away as servants scurry to gather the ropes that bind the bull; but it’s too late, and the bull, already angry, shakes them off as though they were as insubstantial as hopeless dreams. 

The champion spins around, face twisting in sudden satisfaction. In one smooth motion, he gathers his fists above his head and falls upon the bull; it takes but one blow to the head, and the bull staggers to the ground, sightless eyes still open. 

The crowd gasps; even Devasena seems aghast. “He didn’t have to _kill_ it!” she snaps. 

But the King only laughs and raises his right arm in approval. “Bhallaladeva!” he shouts, and haltingly, the crowd takes up the cry. The man so named approaches the royal pavilion as a servant scrambles to bring him a shawl; he waves it away and kneels to the King in the dust. 

“Your Majesty,” he rumbles. 

“Bhallaladeva,” replies the King, “well-named, indeed. An honor to your father.” He indicates a stoop-shouldered man who nurses a cup of wine in one hand despite the early hour; the arm, Nandi notices only later, is shriveled at his side. “A display like that deserves recompense: tell me, what is it that you want from me? A new chariot? A pretty new maidservant or two?” 

“I mean instead to be an honor to you,” says Bhallaladeva, very quickly. “All I wish is to serve you as commander-in-chief. Surely this demonstration must convince you that there is no one more fitting. If I have pleased you, grant me my wish.” 

The King clucks his tongue. “Ah. A noble request, tragically made too late. My mind is already resolved to make my fine son Adityan commander-in-chief of the army on this auspicious day.” 

“He chose brawn at last, then,” Devasena remarks, her asperity concealed by the lukewarm cheers of the crowd. “Pushan is clever enough but cowardly; Adityan might hold his own in a fight against a child, unlike his brothers, but he hasn’t the wits to know what to do with it.” 

“And the third?” 

“Vivasvat is neither,” says Devasena, grimacing. 

“But you need not despair, Bhallaladeva,” the King is saying. “Your prowess and your father’s loyalty will not go forgotten. Adityan needs an aide-de-camp to help him with day-to-day trivialities, after all, and you will do beautifully for the position.” 

“You--” That lone word escapes Bhallaladeva as he lunges to his feet, and Nandi, remembering the rage with which Bhallaladeva faced the bull, wonders suddenly if he won’t spare them the trouble of murdering the King after all. But his father climbs down the steps of the pavilion to stand by Bhallaladeva’s side; he places a quelling hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“My son is grateful beyond measure for your generosity, Your Majesty,” says the stoop-shouldered man, all sycophancy as he gazes up at the King. “So much so that words escape him.” 

Bhallaladeva looks to the side, scowling, but does not disagree. The King, for his part, notices nothing amiss--or, if he does, ignores it. 

“As well he should, Bijjaladeva,” he says. “And now that the House of Martand has ruled over Mahishmati for twenty-five years of glory, let a monument be raised high above it in its memory!” 

This is the signal, it seems, for a great bronze sun to begin to be lifted up to the top of the golden palace using a system of ropes and pulleys. At first Nandi thinks only that it looks out of place, but Devasena sucks in a sharp breath. “He means to smother the sacred flame,” and, seeing his confusion, continues: “They say the fire that crowns the palace has burned since the kingdom was created to purify the kingdom and protect it from evil, and will burn until the day it falls.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “They’re twenty-five years late if anything; Mahishmati lost everything the day Martand seized it.” 

That is concerning enough, but Nandi has always been fascinated by pulleys and sheaves, having used enough of them back home to spot the problem with its construction at once. “Wait here,” he tells Devasena, fighting his way to the front of the crowd; perhaps, if he’s very fortunate, he might be able to find one of the engineers and warn him before it’s too late? 

He is not fortunate. Just as he manages to maneuver his way from the crowd, he hears the block pulling loose and the rope going slack. A glance is all he has: those workers assigned to tug the ropes of the pulley stumbling, the great metal sun sagging and beginning to fall upon the helpless crowd below; Devasena beside him, eyes wide; Bhallaladeva, entirely aware of of the approaching calamity and utterly unconcerned. 

Nandi dives for the rope, but he is not alone. 

Devasena clutches it just behind him, clearly determined to do what little she can; but her grip on the rope loosens as she realizes exactly how strong he is. 

He should, he thinks, have told her sooner. 

There’s nothing to do for it now. Slowly he steps back, pulling the rope as he goes; the sun lowers safely down to the pavilion where it was stored. He turns, uncomfortably aware of the thousand eyes upon him; evident even on the other side of the courtyard, the King’s face is pale. Bhallaladeva, on the other hand, inclines his head in a gesture that is either challenge or salute. 

Deliberately, Nandi folds his hands in greeting, relying on distance to obscure his features, takes Devasena by the hand, and disappears into the crowd. Behind him, Nandi hears the announcement that the celebrations have concluded due to the accident, that a curfew has been put into effect to protect citizens from further mischance, and that the King intends to retire immediately to relax. 

“Our intention,” Devasena whispers furiously, “was to remain hidden until we’d reached our goal. Not to be recognized, not for you to put yourself in harm’s way--” 

“I never meant to put your mission in danger,” Nandi admits miserably. “But I am sure there is another way--with your bow, even a shot from afar could find the King--” 

Devasena startles. “I don’t intend to kill the King,” she says, looking faintly insulted. “That was never my purpose, no matter what my brother might think. Why sully my hands with murder when instead--” She looks away. “When Martand took the throne, he killed many; but one he left alive, to linger and languish and look at what had become of the kingdom. Instead of sending his enemy to the embrace of death, Martand sentenced him to the cage instead.” 

Surely Nandi cannot have heard correctly. 

“The cage,” Devasena confirms. “As much as he tries to bury it behind his fine words, Martand is a brute who keeps his prisoner out among the elements. Even barbarians are ruled by more laws than one can find in Mahishmati.” 

Nandi stares, wanting to excuse the kingdom for its ruler’s actions; but before such clear injustice, he can produce no defense. 

“I’ve argued for years that twenty-five years of misery are more than enough, if only anyone would heed me. To stay in such shame, to outlive even the desire to survive--” Devasena looks suddenly weary. “At least, were I the one locked in the cage for so long, I would want someone to come for me, no matter how long it took.” 

“And so someone will,” Nandi says firmly. “Where is this cage?” 

The cage and its prisoner are kept, he learns, just before the great Shiva temple at the heart of the city. “So that even the Lord might look upon such an outrage and despair,” says Devasena bitterly. 

The problem is the curfew. “A soldier,” suggests Nandi, “a soldier might go anywhere he pleases without question. But for that, we’d need to find a uniform and armor….” 

A problem efficiently, if inelegantly, solved by Devasena when she simply pulls the next soldier unfortunate enough to cross their path into the shadows, only to meet the pommel of her sword. 

She meets Nandi’s best attempt at disapproval only with amusement. 

“While I'm certain you'd prefer to discover a convenient wardrobe somewhere,” she tells him dryly, “you must agree that this is much quicker.” 

He does. They wait until dusk to walk among the silent city, devoid of all its prior vibrancy and reminding him of nothing more than the village where he first met Devasena. As he expects, they are not stopped; the few citizens they encounter refuse to look him in the eye, shrinking away even from his shadow. He thinks of his home, where the only danger of walking after nightfall is that of losing your way in the darkness. He would have hoped a city, with its grandeur, could promise more safety, not less. 

“There,” Devasena breathes. “Just up ahead--” and Nandi can make out the ornate tower that marks the temple’s entrance before them, enough to let him believe they might be successful-- 

“You there!” A voice behind them barks. Nandi’s heart sinks to find a man dressed in an officer’s uniform scowling at him. “Why aren't you on patrol? And who is this with you?” 

Nandi opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, a voice drawls: “It's all right, Captain. They’re on my business.” 

Bhallaladeva staggers forward, a wine-jug clutched in one hand. “I sent him to fetch some….” He sends an appreciative leer in Devasena's direction; she bites back an insult with visible effort, “....entertainment for the night.” 

The officer frowns. “Under whose authority?” 

Bhallaladeva lets out a roar of laughter. “Under my own, or haven't you heard? Most noble and valued aide-de-camp to the Commander-in-Chief, that is how you must know me; and as such, if I decide want any of your men to see to my errands, I expect no interference from the likes of you.” He leans forward. “Or must I explain myself once more?” 

The officer swallows. “No, Lord. Thank you, Lord.” 

As soon as he’s out of sight, Bhallaladeva straightens; gone are stagger and drawl both. “There. As for you,” addressing Nandi, “if you must smuggle your sweetheart into the barracks, have the sense to be more circumspect about it.” 

An excuse for his actions offered almost too easily; Nandi bows and murmurs, “Yes, my lord.” 

With a last contemptuous look, Bhallaladeva turns to go; however, Nandi cannot help but ask: “If I might ask, my lord, what prompted your kindness?” 

“Not kindness,” Bhallaladeva corrects. “A favor I’ll expect repaid when I need it the most. Remember that.” 

Devasena watches him go with distaste. “And that is what Martand effectively put in charge of his armies.” 

“Not by choice,” Nandi says. “On either side.” He feels her gaze on him, sharp and assessing as always but says nothing of what she finds. 

The rest of their journey passes in comparative calm. The temple courtyard is indeed deserted other than four guards posted at each corners, and a coil of chains that leads to: 

“A cage,” Nandi says, still unable to believe it. 

“‘A kennel for the Queen’s loyal dog,’” Devasena quotes. “Or so they said when they locked Karikala Kattappa Nadar away, the greatest warrior Mahishmati has ever known.” 

The inhabitant of the cage doesn't look like a dog, or a warrior, or anything but an worn old man whose hair and beard have grown untimely gray. Nandi’s heart goes out to him: such a man should have grandchildren at his feet, not chains; the wrinkles that line his face should be born of smiles, not woe. 

His instinct is to charge across the courtyard, challenging every guard complicit in such an atrocity, but that will only put them all in danger, including the man they hope to rescue. Instead he forces himself to approach the guards as casually as possible. 

“Captain’s calling for you,” he says. “King’s orders. I'm to take your post instead.” 

One of the guards frowns. “You alone?” 

“You have need of more than that to guard a single old man safely locked away?” When he hesitates, Nandi adds: “Only while the King speaks to you, said the Captain. A promotion, perhaps--but you know how fickle the King’s temper can be.” 

That is enough to convince them. Within minutes Nandi is standing in a courtyard empty save for himself, Devasena, and the prisoner huddled in his corner--Kattappa. 

He approaches slowly; he has seen enough experience of unkindness in this city already to be sure the old man would consider a strange soldier only with suspicion. When he speaks, he is careful to keep his voice as quiet as it is calm. “I've come to free you.” 

Kattappa’s reaction puzzles him. Surprise he would have expected, even relief, but not the degree of delight with which Kattappa regards him. “Lord,” he breathes, to the foundling son of a fishing village, “at last you've returned.” 

“I--” Nandi searches in vain for any response to offer, and during his distraction, Devasena darts forward, to peer at the door. 

“You must come now,” she commands crisply. “I don't know if such a chance to escape will come again.” 

Her patience with the mechanisms of the lock fades; one blow of her sword is all it takes to shatter it. Kattappa clambers forward on hands and knees and once, outside the bars, painfully rises to his feet to take his first hesitant steps as a free man. He stumbles almost immediately, and Nandi and Devasena move as one to support him on either side. 

Devasena attempts to steer them in the direction of the city gates, but Kattappa shakes his head. 

“This way,” he gasps, tottering to the right and nearly sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. “I left it here--” 

Devasena sends an impatient glance at Nandi; easier, he interprets, to throw the senile graybeard over a shoulder and be done with it. But weeks of being around Devasena have taught Nandi something of stubbornness; and the strength of will that could survive imprisonment is not to be ignored. Kattappa's wishes deserve to be respected, within reason. 

He leads them to a small building tucked into a corner of the city's central square: a guardshouse, perhaps, in happier times, but now only desolate and dust-covered. Devasena stands guard outside while Nandi helps Kattappa shuffle within. Once inside, Kattappa makes his way determinedly to a table heaped high with kumkum and dust combined; he rummages within to reveal a cloth-covered package, longer than it is wide, that he clutches close to his chest. 

Nandi, on the other hand, considers the long-abandoned collection of drab blankets and shawls he finds on the opposite side of the room. Slowly the beginnings of a plan come together in his mind. 

* 

“You've left it too long,” says Uday chidingly at the gates. “We’re not supposed to allow anyone to leave past midnight, particularly under a curfew. And,” he squints at Kattappa, draped in blankets and slumped against Devasena, “who is this?” 

“My uncle.” Nandi offers an apologetic smile. “He’s had more to drink than is good for him.” 

“I don't remember you mentioning an uncle before.” 

“Estranged from us for years,” Nandi lies, “ever since grandfather threw him out of the house out of anger. It was only by luck that I came across him today, and, once you open those gates, he’ll see his home for the first time in a decade .” 

“Yes,” replies Uday, looking uncertain. “He certainly doesn't look well enough to travel. Perhaps it is a sign from the heavens, that you should stay until the morning--there are guest houses, you know--and my superiors would prefer--” 

“If I don't return by moonrise, my grandfather will be distraught.” For no other reason does this imaginary grandfather exist; before his eyes, Uday’s limited resolve crumbles. 

“You can't leave like that,” he says at last, “not with him.” Nandi has a minute of worrying that all the blankets in the world aren't enough to conceal the King’s prisoner; but all Uday means is to arrange for a cart. 

“There,” he says with satisfaction once Nandi, Devasena, and Kattappa are settled inside. “No need for your poor drunken fool of an uncle--” Kattappa, clearly warming to his role, lets out a hiccup “--to walk so far before his head clears.” 

Nandi reaches down to clasp his shoulder firmly. “Thank you,” he says sincerely: likely the one true thing he has told Uday. Cruelty and selfishness might mark Martand’s rule; but sparks of kindness remains in Mahishmati, regardless. 

“Think nothing of it--” Uday says, sounding pleased, but he is interrupted by the clamor of running soldiers behind them. This time they aren't as lucky as before: Kattappa’s absence has been noticed. 

With the flick of the reins, Nandi sets the horses galloping. 

Horse hooves echo behind them; they are not alone. The forces of Mahishmati have been sent out to claim the king’s prize, and Nandi dislikes their chances in battle, particularly when their bows are still hidden up a tree. 

But speed, at least, is on their side--at least until an arrow lands with devastating accuracy on one of the axles of their wheels, unbalancing the cart entirely. Devasena slashes at the reins, releasing the horses to safety.Nandi braces Kattappa as best as he can. it’s not enough, though: Kattappa slumps, stunned by the sudden movement. He blinks his eyes once or twice before closing then again and letting his head loll to one side. Devasena winces and bends over him, peering anxiously at his pupils. 

Throughout it all, the sound of their pursuers grows nearer. There is nothing for it: they will have to fight. 

“If the worst happens, take Kattappa and run,” Nandi says grimly. “He won't be able to travel alone.” 

“Why me?” Devasena demands. “Why not you?” 

“You know the way back to your people better than I do, and if I return with a stranger and without you, they will provide us neither shelter nor trust.” He does not have to add: because you are strong enough to survive me, but I am not. 

Across the field, atop a chariot carved with a lion’s head, Bhallaladeva lowers a bow. His companion leans forward. “You are trapped,” he says with the air of one imparting news of great import. Adityan, Nandi remembers, who could hold his own in a fight against a child but hadn't the wits to know what to do with his strength. 

“He should know better,” comes Bhallaladeva’s malevolent whisper, “than to challenge the forces of Mahishmati.” 

“He should!” repeats Adityan. “And he will suffer for his insolence before he surrenders the slave he stole. Guards!” 

Ten of the soldiers who surround the chariot snap to attention. Nandi takes out his hand-axe and throws it in his hand, trying to accustom himself to its weight before he must use in earnest. And then the guards advance as one, and the world is a blur of ducks, dodges, and blows. There is no time to create any ploys or tricks, not now; there is only the knowledge that if he fails, there will be no one but Devasena to protect the weary old man behind him. 

When his vision clears, Nandi has a sore shoulder, a thousand stinging gashes across his arms and legs , and no enemies left living but the two watching from the chariot. His lungs burn; his heart races; and he grins at Adityan defiantly. 

Adityan takes the bait: he leaps from the chariot with a roar of rage, throwing himself bodily at Nandi. Close range might have been Nandi’s salvation, as would cleverness, but Adityan is desperate and unwounded. His fist flails out wildly and connects, improbably, with Nandi’s injured shoulder; Nandi’s vision darkens. In an instant, he knows, he will fall, he will fail, he will die. 

When: _“Amarendra Baahubali!”_ croaks a voice, and Nandi turns reflexively. 

Kattappa, who’s pulled himself to his feet, undoes the bindings of the object he recovered to reveal a sword that gleams in the sudden flash of lightning; he throws back his arm and flings it forward. 

Nandi catches it while Adityan still stares at Kattappa, trying to make sense of the scene before him. It takes only one smooth movement to unsheath the sword, and another to cut off Adityan’s head with a single swing. 

Thunder rumbles a distant approval; rain begins to fall. Nandi wants nothing more than to limp away, but appearances are his only remaining advantage. He meets Bhallaladeva’s eyes levelly--and Bhallaladeva laughs. 

“One down, two to go,” he remarks. “When I told you I expected to be repaid, I didn't expect to see effects so early.” 

Nandi allows his gaze to slide pointedly to the remaining soldiers. Bhallaladeva shakes his head in response. “Worried about them? Don't be. They’re each of them loyal to me and mine alone, a danger only to those who anger me. Besides,” Bhallaladeva gestures to the plains behind them, “I think you’ll find that I have the better right to consider myself outnumbered.” 

True to his words, two separate crowds converge there: one the rag-taggle Kuntalan army, the other (Nandi’s heart takes a guilty leap) his own village, his own people, led by his own mother. 

His parents have found him; whatever threat Bhallaladeva poses is not an immediate one; that means Nandi is free to turn his back on the prince and return to Devasena’s side to kneel so that he meets Kattappa in the eyes. 

“Uncle,” he says gently, as he would address any elder in his village. “ _What_ did you call me?” 

The old man brightens, suddenly appearing decades younger. “No more than what you are,” he replies. His arms spread out as though he means to make a great proclamation. “Amarendra Baahubali, firstborn son and only heir of Vikramadeva, whose sword you hold in yours hands; rightful King of Mahishmati, appointed since the day of your birth; and our savior.” 

Nandi looks up at Devasena, dumbfounded, only to find her smiling faintly. 

“‘Didn't I say,” she murmurs, “that the name ‘Nandi’ hardly suited you?” 

* 

The tale Kattappa tells to a disparate group composed of Nandi’s family and friends, the remnants of Kuntala, and Bhallaladeva and his adherents, is an extraordinary one. 

It begins with a Queen, wise and kind and suited for the throne in all ways, save that she had no right to it. Instead she served it as a devotee does a god in a temple, with simple small tasks that easily went unnoticed--at least until her husband's brother died, and her sister-in-law grew invalid, and they orphaned not only the child of their body but also the children of their hearts: the subjects of their noble kingdom. 

(“A sudden, strange illness in both,” Kattappa explains when asked, “unknown even to the most experienced of physicians,” and of all the deaths Nandi had imagined to explain away the absence of the parents who bore, such a fate had never been among them.) 

But the Queen looked upon these hapless children and found mercy enough in her heart to take them under her wing. But there were rumors, too, of turmoil and treason brewing among the court--the lonely throne drew many, and chief among them the man Martand. 

These things were known to the Queen, as was what she must do: she took the rightful King in her arms and proceeded to the throne room to challenge all those there to do what was right. A handful obeyed their nobler instincts; far more did not. 

But still the Queen might have prevailed, had she not been betrayed by her own spouse. He considered the merits of respecting his wife’s justice; he considered the mere trifles Martand promised him in exchange; and like a craven fool he chose the latter. 

The Queen’s defense of the throne failed, and wounded, she fled with the baby who was meant to reign instead of the usurper. Her supporters among the officials of the court were slaughtered in public. And loyal Kattappa, who had been at her side for so long, was left behind unwilling to endure the cage. 

“I know not how she found the strength or the courage,” Kattappa tells Nandi, “but she would have followed the tunnels known to the royal family to escape to the river, the last defense when all other hope is lost; to no lesser entity would she have trusted you.” 

“And so she gave you to us,” says Mother, while Father nods behind her. If they notice that he doesn't seem surprised to hear it, no more so do they seem shocked by it in turn. Nandi wonders if they have wanted to answer his questions as long as he has wanted to ask them--or if it was only that they accepted it as inevitable that this day would come. 

“While celebrating Sivagami Devi’s life and untimely death,” interrupts Bhallaladeva, “let us not forget that she brought two infants to the throne room with her that night.” 

Kattappa eyes him steadily. “I was present, Prince Bhallaladeva. I remember all too well that she did--just as I remember that when her husband’s deceit was revealed, she declared that no son born of such a dishonorable would ever sit on the throne.” 

“So I am to be denied my birthright for an offense of my father's and no crime of my own?” demands Bhallaladeva. “What justice is this?” 

“For better or worse, Sivagami’s words are the law,” is all Kattappa offers in return; and turning to Nandi, he adds, “and those same words declared you the rightful King in your father’s stead, not Martand. It is time for Mahishmati’s suffering to come to an end; it is time for you to take your rightful place.” 

Nandi remains silent. 

* 

By evening, Devasena comes to him. Everyone else, having noticed his turmoil, has allowed him solitude, but her tolerance must have come to an end. He is grateful of it; he is tired of no company save his own thoughts. 

“I've just come from your mother,” she announces. “Perhaps by the time we’ve had our first child, she might forgive me for having the temerity to distract you from staying away from her side for far longer than you promised.” 

He thinks he might worry more over this if he hadn't heard Mother fawning over Devasena as the daughter she'd never had, if the corners of Devasena’s mouth didn't turn upwards. 

He takes her hand, meaning to make a joke of his own, but finds himself saying, “They want me to be King.” 

“Yes.” 

“I grew up in a village where the most that was ever asked of me was to settle an argument over whether or not Shrawan was cheating at pachisi again or to repair a neighbor’s roof. What do I know of the sort of thing expected of me when ruling an empire?” 

“What’s expected of you,” says Devasena patiently, “is that you follow the wish of the people above all. And the wish of the people is that you should be King.” 

He shakes his head. “There must be so many others more knowledgeable than I,” he tries to explain. “More experienced, more respected--” 

“Certainly there are,” Devasena agrees. He looks at her in surprise, and she continues, “But they none of them wish to better himself and improve the state of Mahishmati as you do. You might sow pearls in one field, and seeds in another, but come harvest, only one will yield the crops you desire.” 

Her faith in him means more than he can say, but nonetheless-- 

Devasena, seeing his hesitation, frowns. “You told me once that what makes one royal is a willingness to protect others before oneself, to take up responsibilities rather than privilege. Have you changed your mind?” 

“No,” he says at last. “But responsibilities seem a terrible burden to bear.” 

She lets her head rest on his shoulder. “You needn’t bear them alone,” she whispers. 

And that is one consolation: if he must become this stranger, this king Amarendra Baahubali--or simply _Baahubali_ ; if he must have two names, both unknown to him, he prefers the one in which he can hear the echo of _Nandi_ \--at least even Baahubali will still have Devasena beside him. 

It’s some time later when Baahubali says: “There are other things that I can’t achieve alone.” 

Devasena sits up. “You understand it means bargaining with a viper--” 

“And trusting it not to bite. I do. But he has the men and weapons we need, not to mention information about the city’s defenses known only to him. What other choice is there?” 

Devasena says nothing, by which he gathers she reluctantly agrees. 

* 

“I know what you mean to ask of me,” says Bhallaladeva dismissively. 

Baahubali raises his eyebrows. 

“You would have me break faith with the master to whom I swore my loyalty when I came of age,” Bhallaladeva continues. “The man who granted me and my father the gift of our lives when it would have been more expedient to have us quietly disposed of.” 

“The master whose soldiers you attempt to sway to your side and whose son you watched die without a word,” points out Baahubali. “The man who opposed your mother.” 

“I would kill her myself if given the chance,” is the indifferent answer. “But my intention was not necessarily to refuse, only to remind you of what I would sacrifice by agreeing. A traitor’s son, a traitor as well--they will say of me, and I must listen to them for the rest of my days.” He sits forward. “A grim fate indeed, worth even the throne in recompense. Don’t you agree?” 

The thought might have been tempting--but Baahubali remembers all too well how Bhallaladeva had simply watched the great bronze sun threaten to topple upon the crowd despite his strength. 

“No,” he says before he thinks better of it. 

Startlingly, Bhallaladeva seems neither surprised nor disappointed. “Why, then, should I support your cause if I can’t have my birthright?” he demands, apparently with genuine curiosity. “Or do you imagine I am bound by my mother’s words like the rest of you fools?” 

“You might not have the throne if you join us, but you’ll certainly not have it if Martand remains on it. He trusts you as little as you trust him. What will he say when you return with his son dead under suspicious circumstances and last seen in your company?” 

Bhallaladeva’s brows furrow. 

“Even if he elects against punishment, do you honestly hope to hold any position higher than a petty official in his court? A life spent calculating taxes, or arranging festivals, away from the army or anywhere else he fears your influence might spread. That is all he will offer you, whereas when I am King--” 

He dares pause for effect; and as he expects, Bhallaladeva’s eyes are as intent as those of any cobra lured into its basket. Baahubali allows himself a smile. 

“When I am King, you will be my commander-in-chief.” 

Bhallaladeva bares his teeth in satisfaction. 

* 

Jayasena counsels that it is wiser to wait. 

“Act only at the moment best suited for victory,” he says. “As we stand now, Martand’s forces outnumber ours; but months from now, more supplies could arrive, or more supporters won over to our cause. Why jeopardize what we have by impatience?” 

“The moment best suited for victory is now,” Bhallaladeva snarls. “Our one asset is that of surprise; if we hesitate, then even that is lost.” 

An impasse, then; they both turn to Baahubali. It is unexpected, but he rallies. This is, after all, no more different than settling any other disagreement brought to him over the years. 

At his right, Devasena sits with her head lowered, for all appearances caught up in restringing her bow, returned to her hand at last by Kuntalan scouts.He suspects that she, like his parents, is attempting not to influence his decision by her own opinion, but it is of little use. He knows her well enough to read her sympathies as though she had shouted them aloud in the tilt of her chin, in the vague guilt across her face as she studies her brother. He finds he agrees. 

“Patience is a virtue,” he says, “but any time that we take to prepare is time that Martand might use to bolster his forces as well. We go to war as soon as possible.” 

Far more unanimous, fortunately, is the decision that the war must be fought on three fronts: better to force Martand’s soldiers to divide themselves so that the difference in numbers is less evident on each field. Devasena and the forces of Kuntala will attack from the east; Bhallaladeva and his men from the west; and once enough of Martand’s men have been lured out of the city, Baahubali and those fighters remaining will advance. 

Which, to Baahubali’s pleasant shock, entails more than just those few men and women from his village who he gauges might not be overwhelmed in a fight. Instead, Kattappa sends messages to those discreet friends who still remember him, and under cover of night, they slip away, and, most surprising of all, the morning they plan to attack he wakes to find a small crowd of determined men and women outside their encampment, each gripping makeshift weapons. 

“We’ve come to join you,” says their ostensible leader, a gaunt-faced, grizzled man. “To place ourselves at the service of the rightful King.” 

“I thank you,” Baahubali says. “In my father’s name, as well. He would be grateful--” 

“It’s not for him we fight,” corrects a woman beside him, “though, of course, His Majesty was a good man. We fight for forgiveness from the brave Kattappa, whose suffering we allowed in silence. We fight for repayment of the Crown Princess, who protected us time and again when she had no reason to.” 

“And for you,” says the leader, “who commanded me once to stand and fight for what was ours.” 

“I thank you,” Baahubali repeats, heart too full to elaborate further. 

The battle begins at sunrise. Baahubali thinks bitterly that he should not have agreed to lead the final section of the army: to wait and watch the fighting from afar is almost unbearable. 

“Such is the task of a King,” says Kattappa. “He is too precious to fight on the front lines.” 

“And instead I am only to wonder if I have sent those who follow me to their deaths?” 

“Instead you are to watch over everyone, not just that corner of the battlefield where you fight,” Kattappa corrects. “To protect with one hand as he attacks with another, such is the duty of a King. So Sivagami Devi said.” 

Wise words, and ones that make him respect the absent woman who had saved his life so long ago even more. Regardless, it is a relief when the horns from the battlefield announce that one of Martand’s son fell to Devasena’s bow, the other to Bhallaladeva’s mace, and that Baahubali and his fighters are free to enter the battle at last. 

He fights at the head of his army, all too conscious that none of them are trained or experienced warriors. He hopes he is successful in shielding them; at least, not one soldier in five makes it past him to the fighters behind him. By the time they fight their way to the drawbridge of the city, he’s relieved to find most of the faces that he recognizes still unharmed. 

Baahubali sees a pale face peer down from the walls at him, and come to a sudden decision: the drawbridge is released, and the city is open to him. He patrols through the streets, to ensure that the people of the city haven’t been harmed; they greet him with flowers and cheers. 

On the steps of the palace, a servant stops him. “The King--” he stops “the other--He waits for you on the ledge overlooking the sacred flame, Lord.” 

Baahubali finds Martand on the very edge, watching the city below. “Do you know,” he says, tone avuncular, “that I never came up here before? Your father swore it was the holiest place in the city, and I never believed him.” He turns urgently. “I had nothing but respect for your father, boy. We have no quarrel between us.” 

“No quarrel on those grounds,” Baahubali corrects. 

“I was loyal to him as long as he lived.” Martand’s eyes are wide; his words frenzied. “It was only when he died that I realized what had to be done : think of it, a kingdom, _our_ kingdom, left in the keeping of a baby! Someone had to protect it from the disaster that would surely ensue. But now you’re here, a man grown: I relinquish the throne to you.” 

“That is not the reason for our quarrel, either.” 

“Then what?” demands Martand. “I never asked Sivagami to steal you away. If the harridan had not, you would have been allowed the same mercy I showed your cousin, and look how he’s grown!” 

“Our quarrel has to do with Sivagami Devi, whose power you usurped and whose life you took.” 

“She took it herself, the foolish woman--acting above her place and allowing herself authority she had no claim to pursue.” 

“She ruled the kingdom with far more consideration and care than did you,” Baahubali points out, “and as the King’s sister-in-law, had more authority to stand as regent. In her memory, I condemn you. Secondly, our quarrel has to do with Kattappa--” 

“The slave?” Martand’s tone is incredulous. “What of it? Do you protest his imprisonment? He is bound to the royal house and has been since he was born --what does it matter if his shackles are attached to his body or only his mind?” 

“And rightfully, both sets of shackles should have been removed by a wise king. But you denied him even the dignity that should be given to any living creature, much less a human being. For his suffering I condemn you.” 

“Women and slaves.” Martand sneers. “You would go to battle over the fate of women and slaves.” 

“Yes,” Baahubali admits. “I am not king because of who I can claim as my father, nor am I king because of Sivagami Devi’s decree. I am king because of the people, and they trust me to protect the rights of all, even women and slaves.” 

“And so I must die for my crimes,” finishes Martand. “Will you put your sword through my heart now, or will you wait for the most dramatic moment?” 

“I expect you to face justice, not murder. You will stand trial before all Mahishmati, and only then will your fate be decided.” 

“What a king you’ll make,” is Martand’s sardonic retort; he turns his back to Baahubali once more. “I ruled this kingdom for half a century, you know, as long as you have lived, and now it will all come to dust. No one will remember my reign, or my poor dead sons--” He spins around, and Baahubali recognizes the mad glint in his eyes only a heartbeat too late to stop him as he stumbles forward into the sacred flame “--but I will be damned if they remember me for the humiliation of a public trial!” 

Baahubali forces himself to remain until the last screams fade, and the crackles of the fire are all that he can hear. To purify the kingdom and protect it from evil, he remembers solemnly; in the end, Mahishmati always reclaims her sovereignty. 

* 

The new King’s uncle is not allowed to pay his respects until almost a week has passed since Baahubali’s triumphant return to Mahishmati. When at last the invitation arrives, Bijjaladeva presents himself at once to the royal apartments, face twisted in his best semblance of a smile. 

“Dear nephew,” he cries, “at long last we meet!” 

Baahubali returns his greeting with a nod. It doesn't escape him that Bijjaladeva studies the decorations Father placed to remind him of home with disgust, any more than did the fact his uncle passed Mother in the corridor outside without a word of greeting. 

“I have called you here,” he says without prevarication, “because a man I met told me that my father’s death was not natural.” 

Bijjaladeva’s face grows still. “My blood runs cold even to think of such a thing,” he says, with obvious effort. “May the gods be thanked that you sent Martand to his rightful punishment.” 

“It was not Martand. He assured that he was loyal to my father while my father lived, and I have no reason to doubt him.” 

A nervous laugh. “A man would say anything to ensure he lived, nephew. I think you’ll find there’s little worth in a frightened man’s confession.” 

Baahubali reaches for his father’s sword and casually unsheathes it. “On the contrary,” he muses, “I’ve always thought that the truth is never revealed simply by asking nicely.” Abruptly he lifts the sword to rest against Bijjaladeva’s neck. “Answer me now: did you kill my father?” 

“Upon my honor--” Bijjaladeva gasps. “It was not I--I would never have dreamed--What do I know of poison--” 

Baahubali lowers his sword. The stammer is enough to confirm his suspicions, but: “I never said he died of poison.” 

“I--what else could have brought down a man in his prime such as your father?” offers Bijjaladeva weakly, before slumping to the ground, devoid of dignity. “Will you kill me now, too? Your own uncle?” 

“No,” replies Baahubali. “I became King to assume my responsibilities, not to avenge my father. That will have to be settled between him and yourself in your next life. But the law demands punishment, and the royal sage tells me that if a member of the royal family commits any offense, he is to be exiled at once from the palace, penniless and alone.” 

Bijjaladeva cringes. 

“I am not without mercy,” Baahubali tells him. “I understand your health would be improved by a stay high in the mountains. We will be saddened to see you go, but we are certain your thoughts and prayers will remain with us.” 

“When my son hears of--” Bijjaladeva begins. 

“It was your son who suggested such a thing,” Baahubali tells him. “Mercy you were granted at his request; any more than that neither he nor I can provide. Pack your things, brother of my father. Your escort leaves at sunset.” 

* 

In the arid days leading up to the monsoon, Bhallaladeva grows restless. “Be done with your coronation,” he demands. “You are King in all but name already; why the delay?” 

“Because there can be no coronation without a Queen,” Baahubali replies. “And Devasena won’t have me until Kuntala’s first harvest is secure.” 

“Keep putting it off, and the priests won’t give you an auspicious day before Vijayadashami,” Bhallaladeva warns. “ _Next_ Vijayadashami.” 

Baahubali chuckles. They are--not yet friends; allies, perhaps. Cousins by birth, and, in another world, they might have been brothers. It is too late for this one. Here, they will never be anything more than King and Commander-in-Chief. The thought fills him with sudden regret. 

“Go, then,” he says, “seek out what adventures you please while you wait.” 

“Not _adventures,_ ” Bhallaladeva replies indignantly. “Martand and his sons trampled the reputation of Mahishmati into the ground with their lack of prowess. We are strong, the world thinks of us, but unskilled I mean to restore our name, make sure the countries around us muster up the proper respect when they think of us.” 

“No battles, no wars, no civilians harmed,” Baahubali reminds him. “Not if it’s respect you want.” 

“As my King commands,” Bhallaladeva drawls, but when he leaves, he bows his head in genuine reverence. 

* 

“No,” says Kattappa, “it cannot be. My service is to repay the debt of my ancestors towards Mahishmati--” 

“--which surely must have been complete by how much you have suffered at Mahishmati’s hands. Even your ancestors in the heavens must be satisfied,” argues Baahubali. 

“It rankles to you only because you are unaccustomed to it. If you had grown up in Mahishmati, my King, you would understand that this is the natural way of things.” 

Baahubali frowns. “The natural way of things is freedom. Even the laws and customs that govern us cannot rob any man or woman of that right.” When he sees Kattappa open his mouth to protest, he adds: “Please, Uncle. Don’t make me release you from one terrible captivity only to send you to another. For my sake, if not your own.” 

Kattappa falls silent, for so long Baahubali worries he’s having another one of the painful episodes that come over him occasionally, during which memories return him to the long years of his imprisonment; when Baahubali studies him more closely, though, Kattappa’s eyes are bright with more than tears. 

“For your sake,” he agrees at last. “I can refuse you nothing, my King.” 

* 

_To the King-to-be of Mahishmati, Amarendra Baahubali,_

_Many greetings from the court of Kuntala. In particular I write on behalf on my brother, who wishes to express his congratulations as to the date of your coronation being set for the coming Vijayadashami. Assuredly, he tells me, he shall be present, along with my sister-in-law. My brother-in-law, unfortunately, demurs as someone must be left to govern Kuntala. He assures me, however, that should you find yourself in need of exhaustive advice as to how to conduct yourself during a coronation, he would be happy to be of service._

_In particular I thank you for your continued kind concerns as to the state of our harvest. I am pleased to be able to tell you that it produced unimagined largesse. The saplings planted continue to grow steadily, the calves and kids brought to the mountains for the first time take to them as though they had always lived there._

_I am assured by my messenger that he will be able to deliver this letter by the first day of Navaratri at the latest. In which case I must in fairness bid you set your servants to prepare rooms for the royal entourage my sister-in-law deems necessary for a Queen; I understand the boat carrying the entire procession, or so it seems, is meant to reach Mahishmati before the altars for Ayudha Puja must be prepared._ __

_As for myself, I will wait no longer. Open your doors and windows the day after you have finished reading this, or perhaps even the same night, and find--me._

**Author's Note:**

> Vilomita - Sanskrit; reversal or inversion.
> 
> Given how long this fic is, I'm afraid I have to hold off on end notes for the time being, due to how long I suspect they would end up being; however, watch this space for further annotations/acknowledgements, coming soon. 
> 
> In the interim, though, there are (mostly intentionally) multiple reversals and callbacks scattered throughout. Anything that sounds familiar likely is!


End file.
